It Came From Outer Space…

Kore challenged me to use my “stripper” story for this one, so here we go at least 250 words on the science-fiction story I have on the go which involves a cybernetic serial killer, and the woman he did not manage to kill.

They’ve left me alone, to look at myself.
It’s taken a while for me to force myself to do just that. I don’t want to see. Yet this is what I wanted.
I can’t find seams…I’ve been staring for probably a half an hour. It’s seamless. Perfect. Vile. Violent.
I’m torn. I can feel the power, the hunger. I’m hungry.
I want to rip it all off again, take it back. But this is the way, the way to get rid of him, to have the power, and not be a victim, right? Seize the day and his throat; possibly.
If I can get past this distaste in my mouth, like copper.
Blood.

I can’t see the seams.
The skin is smooth, darker, but it was before. To make synth skin in my normal shade it would look too dead. You can’t pass yourself off as living wearing it, so they don’t make it. Don’t want you looking dead, now.
Just because you are.
I put my hand over my mouth stopping the laugh, almost rip my face. Here I used to spend all this time worrying about make-up, trying to find the best wrinkle cream and now look at me.
I can’t look at me any more.
Turn away from the mirror. Try not to lurch. More getting used to. It’s what I’m always doing, getting used to myself in new bodies. Three now. Maybe more?
Friday can finish his job, but at least I’ll put up some kind of fight, instead of just standing there and shaking.

I can but dream.
I don’t have anything else left.
Except hate.

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